


The Penitent Man

by charliebrown1234



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Has PTSD (Good Omens), Claustrophobia, Comforting Crowley (Good Omens), Flashbacks, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Isolation, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Solitary Confinement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliebrown1234/pseuds/charliebrown1234
Summary: "I believe that very few men are capable of estimating the immense amount of torture and agony which this dreadful punishment, prolonged for years, inflicts upon the sufferers; ... I am only the more convinced that there is a depth of terrible endurance in which none but the sufferers themselves can fathom... I hold this slow and daily tampering with the mysteries of the brain to be immeasurably worse than any torture of the body; and because its ghastly signs and tokens are not so palpable to the eye and sense of touch as scars upon the flesh; because its wounds are not upon the surface, and it extorts few cries that human ears can hear; therefore the more I denounce it, as a secret punishment which slumbering humanity is not roused up to stay."- Charles Dickens on Solitary Confinement at Eastern State Penitentiary, 1842Aziraphale and Crowley become trapped in an elevator post-Apocalypse, which brings back bad memories for Aziraphale. The resulting flashback is debilitating, and Crowley helps to walk Aziraphale through it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 63
Kudos: 412





	1. Chapter 1

“Need to grab something upstairs, won’t take a moment, angel.”

“Well, then I’ll accompany you. It’s been a while since I’ve seen your flat. I bet your garden is as verdant as ever,” Aziraphale says, following him into the building.

“Oh no you don’t,” Crowley says as they make their way through the pretentiously posh lobby. “You stay far away from my plants, the last time you visited they didn’t grow right for weeks.” He jabs the elevator button irritably.

In reality, his plants had grown even better after Aziraphale had left the night after the Apoca-wasn’t. Crowley had left him alone for all of five minutes before the sound of Aziraphale cooing over his plants brought him back to the greenhouse. His angel’s voice softly murmuring over his ferns made him almost irrationally angry. They didn’t deserve to be called lush and green and nice.

Yet somehow, in the days that followed Aziraphale’s visit, the plants had grown even better than usual. Crowley chalked it up to the threats he’d made after Aziraphale had left and tried to ignore it.

“Oh, surely you don’t mean that,” Aziraphale says as the elevator arrived with an ostentatious _ding_. “I just gave them a little encouragement, there’s no harm in that.”

“No harm?” Crowley grumbles, walking into the elevator. “No harm?” he repeats, pulling a face and pressing the button for his floor. Aziraphale hesitates at the door of the elevator, then walks inside.

“Well, if you’re going to _fuss_ about it, I won’t come inside,” Aziraphale says primly.

“Fuss?!” The full length mirror on the wall reflects Crowley’s scandalized expression. “I don’t _fuss_.”

“Of course you don’t, my dear. Forget I ever said a thing.” Smug bastard. Oh, but Crowley loved him for it. Ever since the apocalypse-that-wasn’t Aziraphale had been more open, less afraid. He’d sit closer to Crowley in the bookshop, tease him in that devastatingly sincere voice with a hint of bastardry underneath. He’d meet Crowley’s gaze at restaurants, then refuse to glance away. He’d even gone so far as to put his hand over Crowley’s when they were sitting next to each other at the park. The back of Crowley’s hand tingles at the remembered contact...

The elevator stops with a lurch, dragging Crowley out of his thoughts and sending him stumbling into a wall. Instantaneously there’s a bright flash of light as several runes on the door and the ceiling flicker into life. They burn a sharp orange before settling into a dull glow, and Crowley feels his powers abruptly vanish behind a wall of spellwork.

“Crowley! What’s going on!”

_Oh, bollocks_.

“It’s fine, it’s all fine. Just a little trap I set up to catch unwanted guests.” He’d forgotten about his efforts to ward the elevator after Hastur and Ligur had showed up unannounced in the late 90’s.

“That’s all very well and good, but why are _we_ trapped in it?”

“It’s ‘cause the lift’s stopped.”

“I can see that,” Aziraphale says, irritated. “But that doesn’t explain why I can’t access my powers and why you put the runes here in the first place!”

“Calm down, angel, I’ll have us out in a minute. Let me just remember where the fail safe is…” He runs his hands contemplatively around the side of the elevator and then freezes.

_Double bollocks_.

He’d been planning to put in a fail safe, but he’d run out of time because he was supposed to meet Aziraphale for lunch. And then he’d completely forgotten about it.

Aziraphale noticed his pause. “Crowley…”

“Now, don’t be upset.”

“Why would I be upset, my dear?” Oh, he knew _that_ tone.

“Well, I may have accidentally forgot to put in the fail safe -”

“Crowley!”

“- but never fear, I’ll just call the humans and they’ll come get us out!”

Crowley crouches down to the door that hides the emergency call button and steals a glance at Aziraphale’s face in the mirrored doors. He’s met with pursed lips and wide eyes, a dichotomy that has him looking a second time.

Aziraphale’s irritated, that’s for certain, but there’s also an element of… Fear? Nervousness? As Crowley watches, Aziraphale makes eye contact with his reflection and drops his gaze to the floor.

“Well, how long will that take?” Aziraphale says, voice strained. “I don’t fancy being trapped for the next week.”

“Week?” Crowley says. “It won’t take a week, it’ll be a few minutes at most. Relax, angel.”

He presses the call button on the emergency panel and hears a tinny voice say, “Hello? Is everything all right?”

“Oh yeah, everything’s just _peachy_. That's why I'm calling the emergency line, because I like being stuck in a lift!”

“Please stay calm sir, we’ll have someone from the lift company and the fire department out in a few minutes. Can you tell me what building you’re in?”

The next few minutes are tediously spent sharing information and pressing door buttons in an attempt to jiggle something loose. As he speaks with the operator, Crowley keeps an eye on Aziraphale.

Something’s definitely wrong. Aziraphale’s face is too pale and he shuts his eyes periodically, grimacing like he’s trying to maintain his composure. He’s also breathing too fast, quick breaths that don’t seem to afford him any air.

But what worries Crowley the most is the way Aziraphale is pulling at his bow tie. He’s tugging it away from his neck jerkily, repetitively, but he hasn’t loosened it in the slightest. He doesn’t seem to notice how the fabric is straining underneath his fingers.

“We’ll send someone out to your location immediately, sir. Please stay on the -”

“Yeah, sure,” Crowley says absentmindedly. Aziraphale’s eyes are tightly closed now, and his free hand is clenching in a spasmodic fist at his side. Crowley rises up to his full height and slowly moves to stand in front of Aziraphale, reaching out a careful hand to touch his shoulder.

* * *

“Aziraphale?”

Crowley’s voice sounds like it’s coming from down a long tunnel, tinny and distorted. Aziraphale has a hunch that even if he could hear him clearly, his own fast, shallow breaths would drown Crowley out anyway. He desperately wants to answer and ease the tension in Crowley’s voice, but his chest is unspeakably tight. He pulls again at his bowtie and tries to suck in a full breath, but all he manages is a dry gasp.

He prys open his eyes, hoping to convey to Crowley that he’s fine, just having a minor corporation malfunction, nothing the matter, truly. But instead of Crowley’s familiar, lanky frame, he sees himself reflected in the mirrors, echoes upon echoes stretching into eternity. He slams his eyes shut again and tries to block the memories trickling out at the sight.

The best option would be to simply leave and prevent the memories from fully taking hold, so he reaches for his powers to miracle himself away and is dispassionately contained by the spellwork. He shudders, clenching his fists tighter and tries to fight back the memories of _let me out let me out please_ threatening to overwhelm him.

Aziraphale feels a hand touch his shoulder and he flinches hard, staggering into the wall. He keeps his eyes shut and blindly fumbles into the corner, sliding down heavily and digging his fingernails into the floor. The thick carpet is rough to the touch, and he grounds himself on the texture. He wrenches open his eyes again, searching for something to anchor him further against the flood of memories, but he is again confronted with his own panicked face. He looks pale, human, wretched, and he knows he’ll never be good enough for heaven -

Then Crowley is in front of him and there’s a hand on his check forcing his gaze away from his reflection. Through the rushing in his ears, he hears, “- out soon - all right - angel -” but it doesn’t help soothe the panic rearing up in his chest.

He clutches at the floor, hoping to ground himself once more, but now his hands seem to lack sensation. In fact, his entire body feels numb, his head spinning from lack of air, but that’s Crowley’s voice, Crowley’s face, and he puts his hands up to his collar to try and get enough breath to reply -

Movement in the corner of his eye. A hallucination? No, his reflection again, crumpled on the floor, eyes desperate and wild. His eyes linger on the threadbare waistcoat, the too often washed shirt, the bedraggled bowtie. _Not very angelic_ , a voice sneers from his memories.

A shiver of fear bolts down his spine. He can’t be seen like this, Gabriel will never accept his apology if he isn’t up to Heavenly standards. Aziraphale flutters a clumsy hand over his collar, trying to straighten his bowtie, but his numb fingers only make it messier.

_Failure,_ his mind hisses, _Sorry excuse for an angel._

_Oh,_ if he could just manage a full breath! He closes his eyes again, fighting hard for a snatch of air, but the vise around his chest only tightens further. _Can’t even fix a bowtie._

Panic crashes in like the tide. Aziraphale tips his head back, desperate for a breath, and yanks furiously at the cloth around his neck. He can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe_ , and then warm fingers are removing the obstruction. It doesn’t help. His quick shallow breaths drown out all other noise. He’s isolated here, locked away to contemplate his errors until he’s penitent enough to rejoin the flock -

But that’s not right. He _remembers_ Crowley being here. He opens his eyes again but sees nothing, his vision obscured by dark blotches. He grips his waistcoat with both hands, trying fruitlessly to ground himself, but the dark spots are all encompassing, and the voices from his memories are only getting louder -

* * *

Aziraphale comes back to himself with a start, Gabriel standing before him. They’re in Heaven, standing in a featureless hallway, and there’s a door with a small window on his left. Something about the door makes his stomach churn anxiously.

“Now, Aziraphale, miracles aren’t miraculous if they happen all the time. You realize that, right?” says Gabriel’s voice, echoing strangely in the hallway. Aziraphale nods silently but doesn’t take his eyes off the door.

“The archangels and I have decided that you’ll sit in there ‘til you’ve figured that out.”

Aziraphale can feel himself beginning to shake, deep, bone shuddering tremors that chatter his teeth. He can see through the window now. There’s a room in there, small and suffocating. _This wasn’t how it happened_ , he thinks desperately. _There wasn’t a window. I hadn’t known what was inside._

Gabriel is gone, but his voice remains. “We’re only doing this for your own good, you know that. It’s because we care about you and want you to be the best angel you can be.”

The door opens soundlessly, revealing the seemingly cavernous space. Light gleams clinically on the interior, showcasing the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that dominate the room. He can see his own face reflected back at him, fear and alarm chasing each other across his features.

Then he’s inside the room, having no recollection of moving over the threshold. He hears Gabriel’s muffled voice somewhere outside. “We’ll be checking in on you soon. Remember, penitence and prayer, Aziraphale!”

The door vanishes.

He’s alone, surrounded by his own reflection. He walks forward to touch one of the mirrors, but his fingers don’t leave a mark. He touches the other three mirrors the same way and almost bumps into them. His sense of space feels drastically distorted with the echo-like reflections.

He hadn’t really noticed from the outside, but the floor and the ceiling are mirrored too. Just endless reflections of himself, looking back at him. He feels slightly sick.

He looks at himself critically in the mirror, then reaches for a miracle to refresh his worn waistcoat and comes up empty. He tries to pull down a blessing to tame his unruly hair and is similarly stymied. His access to miracles has been completely blocked.

That’s fine, he doesn’t need miracles anyway. He’s in heaven, for goodness sake. Nothing bad could happen to him here. Besides, Gabriel said he’d check in. All Aziraphale has to do is wait and feign an appropriate amount of penitence for his ‘misuse’ of miracles when Gabriel returns. He’s going to be fine.

* * *

Time as a concept runs rather differently in Heaven, but Aziraphale can tell he’s been in this cell for a very long time. At first, the time alone hadn’t been terrible. With his eyes closed to block out the eerie reflections, it was almost relaxing. He mentally read through his favorite books, revisited some of his favorite plays (lingering in particular on a version of Hamlet from the 1600s), and recited his favorite poems. Then, when he’d finished, he did it again. And then again. After that, he had moved on to pondering philosophical problems. Then he’d calculated the distance he’d covered pacing the length of his cell during the aforementioned pondering. Then he tried to discover where the light in his cell was coming from. Then he’d done experiments, pulling at the threads of his coat and watching as they miraculously snapped back into place the moment he let go.

Sometimes he studied his reflection. What was it about him that is so abhorrent to the other angels? Was it his neckwear? The slightly worn pattern on his waistcoat? Or maybe it was to do with his corporation. He’d always found it suitable, but perhaps it should be taller. Larger. Less visibly soft. Gabriel was always telling him to be less tender hearted. Perhaps changing his appearance would help?

After having exhausted all other forms of mental stimulation, he takes to staring endlessly at the walls. Or into the walls, he supposes. The only fixed point is himself, and even that becomes nebulous. The corporation in the mirror seems almost like a stranger, one whose movements are only loosely controlled by himself.

He sees the reflection fidgeting, twisting his hands round and round, and is surprised when he looks down and sees his own hands moving. He vaguely thinks he ought to make them stop, but they continue to move without his permission, rippling over each other like bubbles in the surf. He quite liked the surf. Some of his favorite memories involved sitting by the water, listening to the waves and watching them roll over the sand. Sometimes Crowley would accompany him and they would get ice cream. The sweet taste of sugar on his tongue, Crowley’s hair gleaming in the sunlight as he leans over and -

His reverie is interrupted by a sharp zing of pain. There’s a small cut on his palm. His hands continue to move of their own volition, and the pain sparks again in a different part of his hand. He looks down and sees a tiny gleam of blood on his signet ring. It vanishes so quickly it’s like he imagined it.

His hands twist together harder, and with another jolt he sees his ring score a tiny line into his hand. The ring’s metal flames atop the shield are pinching and cutting his flesh. He tightens his hand firmly and feels the answering bite in his skin. He opens his hand, expecting to see marks, but there’s nothing. He squeezes again, harder, and the points of the ring pierce through his system. The fog begins to clear, and he remembers why he’s here.

He’s being punished for using too many miracles. Gabriel’s said he can come out when he’s appropriately penitent. His hands clench and he feels the surprising shock of pain as his ring bites into his flesh.

Azirapahale needs to get out of here. The only way to get out of this cell is to be penitent. Or, at least, to appear penitent. He shuts his eyes and navigates by feel to the corner of the cell, clenching his fists all the while. He can use the small stings of pain to ground him, keep him present until Gabriel returns. He stiffly folds himself into a kneeling position, eyes still shut, and clasps his hands together in prayer.

Now, if Gabriel or another angel were to stop by, they’d see how good of an angel he could be. Only he’ll be able to feel the sharp pin prick on the palm of his hand, keeping him present as time passes him by.

* * *

Aziraphale feels like gossamer. A sharp wind, a strong blow, and he’ll dissipate into shards. Maybe Gabriel will be able to assemble him into a functional angel with what’s left.

He tries to stay focused, pinching and squeezing at his corporation, but it all feels so distant. He feels disconnected from himself, like a spectre haunting his own body. And yet there is an ever pervasive feeling of being trapped in this room, preventing him from fully drifting away. Sometimes he feels like an animal, willing to claw off its own limbs just to escape a trap. 

He tries not to let himself get that far. It probably wouldn’t be very penitent of him to try and chew off an arm to escape his cell.

He uses his ring to try and keep himself alert. Aware. Sometimes, he loses the fight to fear and claustrophobia, coming back to himself with a dry mouth and words on his lips. Once, in a fit of desperation, he’d tried to break one of the walls, intending to use the shards of the mirror to discorporate himself. His despairing shriek when the wall refused to shatter was so loud he startled himself back into sanity.

And always, always, his reflection looking back at him. Eyes wild, mouth open in panic, gasping for air he doesn’t need.

He loses large chunks of time in this way, his empty mind circling on nothing in particular. He attempts praying aloud, whispering _please let me out, I know what I’ve done wrong, forgive me, I am penitent -_ in the hopes that Gabriel will hear his prayers and release him, but nothing happens. Over time, the words become a litany, a reassurance that someone is coming to let him out.

He tries to ignore how desperate his voice sounds, but tiny flickers of shame bubble up without his consent. He wants to be free so badly he’d be willing to do almost anything, suffer any indignity just to see the sky. The walls press so close, it’s almost like they’re trying to crush him. He chokes out a _please_ that no one will ever hear and loses time again, feeling his grasp on reality slip sideways as he drowns in the endless reflections.

* * *

Crowley is reeling at how quickly things have deteriorated. One moment he’s reaching out to touch Aziraphale’s shoulder and the next Aziraphale is flinching away so badly he hits the elevator wall and slides into the corner.

“Whoa, easy,” Crowley says, crouching down an arm’s length away. Aziraphale is still gasping for air, eyes screwed shut as his hands scrabble desperately on the floor. His fingers rake through the thick weave of the carpet before his eyes shoot open and dart anxiously around the elevator. He quickly fixes on his own reflection, eyes widening in horror, and Crowley’s stomach drops as he hears a low whine of panic from Aziraphale’s chest.

Throwing caution to the wind, Crowley reaches out and cups his face, forcing Aziraphale to meet his gaze. Aziraphale takes a hitched breath of surprise at the touch and there’s a flicker of recognition in his gaze.

“We’ll be out soon, you’re all right, just stay calm angel,” Crowley says, trying to reach past the panic in Aziraphale’s eyes. Aziraphale looks like he’s about to answer, then chokes on his inhale and reaches a panicked hand up to his collar. The movement in the mirror catches Aziraphale’s eye, and the distress appears again, more acute than before.

Aziraphale’s breathing picks up, his inhales shallow and fast as he pulls clumsily at his bowtie. His rough tugs are only pulling the neat bow further apart, and Crowley sees panic flare in Aziraphale’s eyes before he tips his head back against the elevator car and wheezes for air. Now Aziraphale is yanking at the tie and the collar both, wrenching and tearing at them and seemingly unaware of how they’re beginning to rip under his fingers. Crowley darts forward to unfasten and loosen them, but the distress in Aziraphale’s face doesn’t ease in the slightest.

In fact, Aziraphale panics even more, opening and closing his eyes frantically and clenching his waistcoat like it’s the only thing keeping him inside his corporation. His breath catches as he chokes out a sob.

“Aziraphale? Aziraphale?!”

No response. Aziraphale has abandoned his waistcoat and is now wringing his hands furiously, twisting them into contorted shapes. They’re slowly growing more and more red with the abuse, the “shhh” of his palms chafing almost as loud as Aziraphale’s panting breaths. Crowley reaches out to still them, but Aziraphale jerks them away.

“Aziraphale? You with me?”

Aziraphale shows no sign of having heard him and pulls himself even tighter, bringing his knees up to his chest and folding his hands together as if in prayer. Aziraphale’s lips are moving too, but it’s hard to hear what he’s saying.

Crowley’s blood chills as he finally deciphers the quiet whispers.

“Please let me out, I know what I've done wrong, _please_ , I can be a good angel, I’m penitent, Gabriel, let me out -”

Crowley’s gut clenches so tightly it’s painful. He needs to put a stop to this. Immediately. But how? Aziraphale isn’t reacting to his voice, and from the way he’d flinched physical touch is off the table.

Fuck, it’s been ages since he’s had to perform medical care. Normally he just snaps his fingers and the problem solves itself. _Think, think!_ What would Aziraphale do?

Unbidden, a memory of Aziraphale dressed as a medic rises to the forefront. In it, Aziraphale is talking low and quiet to a young man on a cot who’s trembling and gasping for air. Aziraphale is holding him firmly by the shoulder while he passes a bottle beneath the boy’s nose. The young man wrinkles his nose and begins to blink furiously, coming out of his fit and locking eyes with Aziraphale, who guides him through breathing calmly until the young man is resting easy once again.

The memory dissipates, leaving behind a realization. He needs smelling salts! Crowley pats himself down furiously, cursing when he finds his fashionable coat bereft of anything besides his mobile device.

A whimper draws his attention back to Aziraphale. The angel looks worse than before, sickly pale and holding himself so rigidly upright his muscles tremble with the strain. He still doesn’t seem to be getting enough air, panting and twitching for breath, and his coat stretches tautly across his shoulders as he pulls himself tighter into the corner of the elevator.

Wait. Aziraphale’s coat! Aziraphale always keeps sweets and peppermints in his pockets. Crowley shifts to Aziraphale’s side, broadcasting his movements as clearly as he can before he begins to search Aziraphale’s coat, taking care to avoid touching him as much as possible.

He silently cheers when he finds a peppermint tucked in the bottom of Aziraphale’s left pocket and untwists the wrapper eagerly, letting the faint scent of peppermint fill the car. With some careful maneuvering to avoid touching Aziraphale’s corporation (still wrapped tightly and trembling) he puts the peppermint directly under Aziraphale’s nose.

Aziraphale’s brow furrows slightly, but his eyes don’t open. The desperate whispers of _let me out, let me out, please_ continue unabated from Aziraphale’s lips, and Crowley growls in the back of his throat before fanning the peppermint back and forth. This, along with the draft of air, elicits a nose wrinkle and a confused blink.

“Aziraphale, are you with me?”

Another slow blink, and a hint of lucidity behind the eyes. What should Crowley do now? Probably not touch him, that hadn’t worked out before. Maybe if Aziraphale ate the peppermint it’d help ground him? Crowley doesn’t want him to choke accidentally. The lucidity in Aziraphale’s eyes begins to recede, and Crowley makes a snap decision and pushes the mint into Aziraphale’s mouth.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen comically, and Crowley watches as Aziraphale shuts his mouth and sucks on the peppermint furiously, lucidity returning to his eyes. But just as Crowley thinks Aziraphale is starting to come out of his flashback, Aziraphale looks at something over Crowley’s shoulder and slams his eyes shut again.

“Aziraphale, I’m right here. Stay with me, angel.”

Unbidden, Aziraphale’s left hand darts out and latches onto Crowley with a desperate grip. His hand is white knuckled on Crowley’s jacket, and Crowley covers it carefully with his own, saying as he does, “It’s alright, we’ll be out soon.”

Aziraphale’s hand turns to clutch at Crowley’s exposed wrist, the angel’s palm sweaty and trembling against his skin. Aziraphale is still puffing for air in between sucking the mint, and Crowley once again summons up the memory of Aziraphale calming the young man down with gentle, deliberate motions. He shuffles closer to Aziraphale on the floor and pulls Aziraphale’s hand to his chest, taking an exaggeratedly deep breath.

“Can you take a deep breath for me?” Crowley asks, pulling in a slow lungful of air.

Aziraphale nods his head minutely and attempts to inhale slowly, but panics halfway and hyperventilates again. His hand pulls anxiously at the shirt on Crowley’s chest, burning like a brand through the thin material. If Aziraphale hadn’t been so obviously distressed, Crowley would’ve been overjoyed at this intimate touch, but as it is, Aziraphale’s blatant panic is dispelling any semblance of a romantic moment.

“Good job Aziraphale, let’s try that again. A deep breath in -” Crowley pauses, pulling in air and holding it, “- and out.”

Aziraphale tries again, marginally more successful, and manages to croak out, “Crowley?”

“I’m here. Just keep breathing with me.”

Another round of breaths follows, each one slightly calmer than the last. After a minute, they fall into a pattern of calm, cyclical breathing, and Crowley can feel the tension in Aziraphale’s body begin to ease.

Something hard clangs against the door, accompanied by a male voice shouting, “You all right in there? We’ll have the doors jimmied in a tic, don’t you worry.”

The man’s voice has thrown Aziraphale back into a panic, his eyes wide as he fixates on the door. He still seems partially aware, hand clenching and unclenching on Crowley’s shirt, but it’s obvious that escape is forefront on his mind. His breathing has gone to pieces again too, quick gasps for air undercut with quiet mutters of, “please, let me out, _please_.”

Then there’s an abrupt feeling of a seal breaking as a crowbar creates a gap in the doors, and Crowley feels his powers rush back into his corporation. He doesn’t have much time to enjoy it, however, as Aziraphale’s powers simultaneously yank him into a different dimension.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Well, it’s not so much a trembling, though they do quiver—as a complete derangement of the nervous system. They can’t sign their names to the book; sometimes can’t even hold the pen; look about ’em without appearing to know why, or where they are; and sometimes get up and sit down again, twenty times in a minute. This is when they’re in the office, where they are taken with the hood on, as they were brought in. When they get outside the gate, they stop, and look first one way and then the other: not knowing which to take. Sometimes they stagger as if they were drunk, and sometimes are forced to lean against the fence, they’re so bad..."
> 
> \- An Employee on Solitary Confinement at Eastern State Penitentiary, Conveyed to Charles Dickens in 1842

_There’s an abrupt feeling of a seal breaking as a crowbar creates a gap in the doors, and Crowley feels his powers rush back into his corporation. He doesn’t have much time to enjoy it, however, as Aziraphale’s powers simultaneously yank him into a different dimension._

Aziraphale knows he’s being rough with Crowley, but he needs _out_ of that room. Once he’s free and clear of the wards, he shoves them both hastily through the dimensions, and they both land on the roof of Crowley’s apartment building with a quiet pop. They’re still arranged in their seated positions across from one another, but he barely notices with the relief of being outside.

He’s out. Oh, thank the Lord he’s out. The damp, chill air feels wonderful on his sweaty skin. He can feel the wet roof soaking his trousers as he tilts his head back to take in the wide expanse of the cloudy London sky. With the wind on his face and the taste of peppermint in his mouth he feels almost solid again, tangible and present in his body.

He shudders, remembering the sensation of being adrift and empty. It had been so -

A sharp gust of wind cuts through his thoughts, and he shoves away the feelings of panic and desperation before they can drown him anew.

Oh, but it had been dreadful beyond words. He’d really felt like he was back there, trapped without hope of escape and losing himself like a sand castle buffeted by the tide -

He pushes the rising panic back a second time and tries to calm his breathing, focusing on the grounding touch of the gritty roof underneath him. Inhale, 1 - 2 - 3, then exhale, 1 - 2 - 3, inhale -

“Aziraphale?”

Crowley’s voice startles him out of his rhythm, and he realizes abruptly that he’s still clutching Crowley’s hand. How embarrassing. He attempts to pull his hand away only to have Crowley reclaim it, trapping his fingers and bringing them back to Crowley’s chest.

“Are you with me? Are you alright?” Crowley says anxiously.

“Terribly sorry,” Aziraphale manages to reply. Oh, bless it all, if only his lungs would just start cooperating with him.

“Don’t be sorry, tell me what’s going on. Is this Heaven? Are they doing something? How can I help?” Crowley asks again, yellow eyes wide and earnest.

Aziraphale wants to tell him there’s not much he can do to help, but the cold air suddenly cuts through him, moving from refreshing to chilling in a heartbeat. He feels clammy now, the grey, claustrophobic sky simultaneously too close and too exposed. He’s being ridiculous. He had wanted to be outside not a moment ago, and now it’s too exposed? _Pathetic, inconsistent angel, can’t even make up his mind -_

A car honks its horn below and he startles, the noises of Mayfair growing exponentially louder the longer he sits on the roof. There are horns honking, people arguing, walk signals chirping, sirens in the distance, all building into a crescendo that’s so deafening he can’t focus on anything else -

“ - phale, hey, Aziraphale, do you need to go somewhere else?”

He nods weakly in response, wanting to say something, but he can’t seem to make his vocal cords work.

“Where would be best? The book shop?”

He tries to focus on Crowley, center himself on the familiar face, the flint black shades covering golden eyes. It works for a moment until he catches his reflection in Crowley's sunglasses, sending him spiraling back into a memory of _let me out, let me out, please!_ His gorge rises and he swallows desperately, closing his eyes to shut out the image.

“I’m going to fly us to the book shop, nod if that’s all right.” Crowley’s voice, anxious and tight. Oh, Aziraphale does hate to worry him.

He forces his recalcitrant muscles to obey him, bends his neck in painful facsimile of a nod, and then it’s only a matter of a moment before Crowley pulls them into the ether.

* * *

Crowley’s had a very long half hour. When they first arrived in the bookshop, he was certain Aziraphale would finally calm down and tell him what happened. The wards of the bookshop would cover Aziraphale like a warm cloak, promising reassurances of protection. The smell of old books and dust would make him realize he was safe.

But it wasn’t to be. Aziraphale had rasped out uneven breaths for a full fifteen minutes, and then spent the next fifteen minutes wrestling his breathing back under control.

Crowley watches nervously as Aziraphale sits limply in the center of the atrium, eyes closed and looking exhausted. Crowley wishes vaguely that he was still holding Aziraphale’s hand. Then he’d know what the angel’s pulse was like, whether his skin was sweaty or cool. But Aziraphale had pulled his hand away as soon as they’d landed, clasping it tightly in his lap and worrying his ring.

Aziraphale sighs and slumps further.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley says in a whisper, wary of startling him.

Aziraphale startles anyway.

“Oh! Crowley! I - ”

All at once, Aziraphale seems to realize that he’s slumped on the floor. He pulls himself upright and pastes on an unconvincing smile.

“I’m so sorry, what was that?”

“Nnh, ‘s nothing. Are you feeling better?”

“Oh yes, much better. Tip-top shape, even,” Aziraphale says.

“Tip-top shape, huh?” Crowley says, trying to keep his voice calm. “So we aren’t going to talk about what just happened?”

“I don’t see why we would. Let bygones be bygones, that’s what I always say.” Aziraphale’s voice is tight, and his hands twist nervously before he folds them neatly in his lap.

“Let bygones be bygones?” Crowley replies incredulously. “Bygones be - angel, you just had a panic attack in an elevator! Why would you - it’s not your - what am I - ” He’s tripping over his words, his tongue is running away from him. He knows he should be calm, he _knows_ Aziraphale needs him to be calm, but in the last hour he’s seen Aziraphale panic, disassociate, choke for air, and chafe his hands so badly he almost drew blood. Crowley just doesn’t have any calm left.

“Why don’t I go make us some tea?” Aziraphale says. Crowley can see the panic bubbling in the back of his eyes. “I’ll be just a moment.”

“Wait, Aziraphale, you don’t - ”

But Aziraphale is already pushing himself to standing and scurrying around the corner.

_Bless it all to pieces, why is this so bloody difficult?_ Crowley groans in frustration. He’d been doing so well, and at the last minute he’d gone and cocked it all up. Aziraphale had just started to relax, or at the very least calm down, and now Crowley’s gone and worked him up again.

Crowley stalks toward the back room and throws himself onto the sofa, resolving to keep his emotions under control. He can work through his own issues later, but right now Aziraphale needs his help.

But what was it that caused him to be so upset? Aziraphale’s never been claustrophobic before, not in all the years Crowley had known him. Maybe it was because he couldn’t escape. They’re weren’t many things that could effectively trap an angel for more than a few seconds.

Unbidden, the memory of Aziraphale in the elevator returns, and Crowley’s gut twists as Aziraphale’s whispers - _please let me out, I know what I've done wrong, please, I can be a good angel_ \- echo in his mind. Something must have happened to Aziraphale in Heaven, a punishment of some sorts.

But when? Crowley couldn’t remember Aziraphale being recalled to Heaven in recent memory besides the whole Apocalypse incident. Maybe something had happened to Aziraphale when he was discorporated?

Aziraphale interrupts his thoughts by bustling into the room with a china tea set atop a tray covered in biscuits.

“I’ll be mother,” Aziraphale says as Crowley makes a move towards pouring. “One sugar or two?”

“Two,” Crowley replies. He’s tempted to miracle some whiskey into his cup as well, but concludes he probably ought to remain sober for the conversation he’s about to attempt with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale hands the cup and saucer to Crowley, and it feels delicate in his hands, fragile. It matches the mood of the room as Aziraphale picks up his own cup and saucer. Crowley can hear the faint rattle of the cup as Aziraphale’s hands shake minutely.

They sit in silence for a minute, tea untouched and biscuits ignored.

“Do you -” Crowley’s voice sounds too loud in the quiet of the backroom, quickly absorbed by the various rugs and throw pillows. He clears his throat and eyes Aziraphale. He looks uncomfortable, like he wishes Crowley weren’t here so he could lock himself in his shop and pretend nothing happened.

But bless it all, Crowley needs to know what went wrong. If only so he can prevent it from ever happening again.

“Do you want to talk about it? Maybe I can help?” he says, reluctant to break the silence.

Aziraphale stares at him, dread in his eyes, then clears his throat. “I don’t believe there’s much to help with.”

Deflection. Crowley needs to be more blunt.

“Look, angel. You really -” _Fuck_ , that isn’t right. It’s all about “I” statements, isn’t it? Crowley is pretty sure he’d read that in a book somewhere.

“I was...worried about you, in the lift. I felt -” _terrified, horrified_ “ - concerned when I couldn’t reach you.”

Aziraphale looks as uncomfortable as Crowley feels, but Crowley _needs_ Aziraphale to understand.

“I can’t - ”

He takes a deep breath and runs a hand down his face.

“If you’re... able, and willing, I would like to know what upset you. You don’t have to tell me details. I just want to help you avoid it in the future.”

Aziraphale’s face is an open book, gratefulness and affection chased by embarrassment mixed with reluctance. It’s like watching a roulette wheel of Aziraphale’s thoughts and feelings, and Crowley hopes it lands on his number.

But it doesn’t hurt to load the dice.

“Please,” Crowley says, so sincere it almost hurts.

Aziraphale caves. “I - I’m not terribly fond of small spaces.”

Crowley says nothing, undemanding and patient.

“I dislike being trapped, and my powers withheld. It -”

Aziraphale stops abruptly. “Is that sufficient? Do you need me to keep going?”

“Whatever you want to tell me, angel. I’m here to listen.”

Aziraphale huffs, anxious. He sits silently for a moment, fidgeting with his waistcoat, then says, “I suppose I should tell you the whole thing then. So you know.”

He settles himself tensely in the chair.

“It began with the potato famine in Ireland, sometime in the mid 1840’s. I traveled there to help. I cured crops, healed families, increased food stores, and did my best to assist those in distress. Then Gabriel arrived.”

“I was told under no uncertain terms to cease my behavior. These people were Heaven bound, and I was only prolonging their suffering. Gabriel forbid any more miracles. So I decided to help in more human ways. I raised money, distributed relief through food and clothing.”

“Then I met a man. He never gave me his name, but he was older and he always came alone. Each time he came he was thinner, sicker. I thought, if this man is guaranteed to Heaven, surely it would be a blessing to ease his passing! But Gabriel disagreed.”

Aziraphale swallowed, looking pale.

“I was taken to Heaven and placed in a cell. It was small, windowless, and surrounded by mirrors. Floor to ceiling, really. It created quite an optical illusion!”

Aziraphale pauses again, visibly pulling himself back together.

“At the start, it wasn’t so bad. I quite like being alone, so I thought I would enjoy the time away. Besides, I wasn’t actually sorry for helping. But then Gabriel didn’t come back.”

Crowley’s stomach drops.

“Apparently something came up, a meeting or some such thing, and I was left there for quite some time. Almost three months!” Aziraphale gives a short, nervous laugh.

“Then Gabriel returned and found I was sufficiently penitent for my misdeeds.”

Aziraphale’s voice in the elevator, _I’m sorry, forgive me, I won’t ever do it again_ -

“So I was sent back to Earth to continue Heaven’s work. I -”

Aziraphale’s voice catches, and he stops.

“It took me some time to adjust. It’s terribly loud down here compared to Heaven, and yet the quiet was almost just as bad. And then there was relearning how to perform miracles! I couldn’t even miracle myself a fresh set of clothes. My goodness, I must have looked a fright those first few months.”

Crowley vaguely remembers a time in the mid 1800’s when Aziraphale had been quieter and more rumpled than usual, but he’d chalked it up to one of the thousand other small events of the time period. At the time, Crowley hadn’t pressed the issue of why Aziraphale was unusually reserved. Looking back now, he wishes he had.

“But of course that’s all in the past,” Aziraphale continues airily. “As long as I stay away from mirrored lifts with angel traps written on them, I shall be perfectly fine. Now what shall we do for supper, my dear? It’s rather late, but I know of a lovely Indian place down the road that does takeaway.”

Crowley says nothing. Aziraphale might prefer to brush it all under the rug, but this is something that needs to be addressed. Crowley’d always known heaven had been a bit shit, had believed it even more after Aziraphale’s fake execution, but he’d never known it was this bad.

What Aziraphale was describing was torture, plain and simple.

“I appreciate you telling me that,” Crowley says, fury and rage clogging his throat.

“I’ve upset you.” Aziraphale looks tired, exhausted even. His aura looks tired too, gray and dim.

Crowley stands abruptly and moves behind the sofa, trying to channel his anger into fitful pacing.

“‘m not upset.”

Aziraphale gives him a look.

“Fine! I am upset, but not with _you_. I should’ve burned that bastard Gabriel when I had the chance.”

The thought of Aziraphale, trapped, powerless, _alone_ , waiting for someone to let him out on the arbitrary basis of penitence. Aziraphale’s quiet voice begging to be let out without the faintest hope of anyone listening.

_Please let me out, Gabriel, please_ -

“Fuck!”

Aziraphale flinches and sends him a nasty look.

“Really, there’s no need for that kind of language.”

“There’s exactly the need for that kind of language! They tortured you! Left you alone and threw away the key! Bunch of BASTARDS!” He’s shouting now, furious at himself for not being able to control his emotions and more furious at the entire situation. Aziraphale deserves so much better, deserves the best, and yet he’s stuck with a demon who can’t even keep his cool.

“Oh, _Crowley_.”

Shit. He might have said that last part out loud.

“I appreciate you so much my dear, you’ve been invaluable.”

Aziraphale is looking at him with eyes full of gratitude, and Crowley’s feeling whiplash at how quickly the situation is changing.

“This isn’t about _me_ ,” Crowley protests. “I’m supposed to be comforting you! ”

“Oh, pish,” Aziraphale says practically. “We could both use some comfort, I think. Why don’t we take this up another time? Clearer heads and all that.”

“But - ”

“Crowley.” It’s delivered with exactly the right amount of pleading to stop Crowley in his tracks. “I _promise_ , we can discuss this later. But I’m rather wrung out, and I would greatly appreciate tabling this topic. Please.”

“Whatever you need, angel,” Crowley says, still feeling wrong footed. “I’ll just go then, yeah? Peace and quiet.”

He desperately doesn’t want to let Aziraphale out of his sight, but he also doesn’t want to impose if Aziraphale wants to be on his own.

“No, stay!” Aziraphale looks startled at just how loud his own words come out, and Crowley can’t help but quirk an amused eyebrow at the intensity of the request. Aziraphale blushes slightly, but continues regardless. “I’d rather not be alone if it’s all the same to you.”

“Of course. ‘S not a problem.”

“So, takeaway then?”

“Whatever you like.”

The food arrives promptly, because Crowley and Aziraphale both expect it to, and Aziraphale tucks in with enthusiasm. After a few mouthfuls he hums happily, wiggling slightly in his seat.

“This tikka masala is absolutely scrumptious. You must try it.”

“I’m alright, thanks,” Crowley says, halfheartedly picking at some naan.

“I insist, it’ll do you a world of good,” Aziraphale says, moving towards him and bringing several takeaway containers.

“Well, if you _insist_ ,” Crowley mocks lightly. He moves to sit up and grab a container but freezes when Aziraphale sits beside him. Aziraphale’s sitting much closer than usual, none of their usual several feet distance, and he can see the look of concentration on Aziraphale’s face as he fusses with the food.

“Here,” Aziraphale says, pushing a spoon in front of his face. “Try this.”

Oh, Satan. That’s Aziraphale’s spoon. That’s a spoon that’s been in Aziraphale’s mouth. And now it’s a hands breadth from his lips.

“Well, go on,” Aziraphale says. He wiggles the spoon enticingly.

Crowley opens his mouth meekly. _Aziraphale’s tongue has touched that spoon_ , his brain reminds him unhelpfully. His face heats at the thought as the rich flavor of tikka masala sizzles on his tongue. Is there an aftertaste of something else there too? Something sweet, something uniquely Aziraphale? If he kissed Aziraphale right now, would he find more of that flavor?

“How was it? Not too hot?”

Fuck, Aziraphale’s looking at him, and he tries to force the blood away from his cheeks.

“Ngh, ‘s good,” Crowley manages to croak.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Aziraphale takes another mouthful (using the same spoon!) and settles more comfortably into the sofa. Crowley swears he can feel the heat from Aziraphale’s thigh as it rests enticingly close to Crowley’s own. But this isn’t normal Aziraphale behavior. Normal Aziraphale would sit across the room and pass him the container, not feed him by hand like some kind of -

“So… You’re doing alright then?” Crowley asks, desperate to regain some control.

“Yes, I’m doing much better. I find good food and good company do wonders for the mood.”

Despite what he’s saying, Aziraphale still looks slightly wary, as if worried Crowley wants to discuss the incident in the elevator further.

“That’s good, that’s good.”

They sit in awkward silence for a moment before Crowley clears his throat and says, “I just want you to know, I meant what I said before. I’m here to listen. To whatever you want to tell me.”

Aziraphale sets his food down and looks away, tension seeping back into his shoulders.

Crowley hastily tacks on, “Not right now. Not ever, if you don’t want to. But - ”

He pauses, swallows.

“We’re on our own side, now. ‘Sss just you and me, angel. So, y’know, whatever… you need.”

_Fuck! Pause right in the middle and hiss a bit more, why don’t you!_

He reluctantly turns to face Aziraphale.

“Oh, my dear boy.” Tears welling up in Aziraphale’s eyes, and his smile is so bright Crowley feels almost blinded.

“Thank you. Truly.”

“Of course, angel. Anytime.”

They share a moment, a flare of _something_ blossoming between them like a flower, and then Aziraphale ducks his head and surreptitiously wipes his eyes.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, voice not entirely steady, “I’ve always said you were a nice person, deep down.”

Crowley groans, pushing half heartedly at where Aziraphale is practically leaning against his side. “Tell the whole blessed world, why don’t you.” A throwback to earlier times when this level of openness and sincerity would have been too fast, too dangerous for the both of them.

“It’ll be our secret. No one will know how caring you are, or how considerate you can be, or - ”

“Angellll,” Crowley whines. “My reputation, please!”

Aziraphale subsides with a knowing look.

“I’ll have you know I glued several bankers to their front lobby the other day,” Crowley continues.

“I’m sure you did.”

“I did! And I created another one of those terrible programmes you hate about baking.”

“Oh, you didn’t! They don’t have the proper time to showcase their skills, Crowley, it’s just not cricket.”

“Not cricket? Not _cricket?_ Angel, no one’s said that for a hundred years!”

“Well, I’ll be the one to bring it back. It’s all cyclical, you know.”

“All cyclical,” Crowley grumbles. “I’ll show you cyclical.”

“What was that?” Aziraphale asks as he tucks back into his tikka masala.

“Nothing important. Besides, I want to tell you about that new programme I put together…”

They spend the rest of the evening in companionable chatter, inching closer to each other all the while. By the time the wine has been broken out, the two are so close a casual observer might say they were cuddling. Crowley himself is reluctant to put labels on such things, and instead basks in the feeling of Aziraphale’s warmth as the evening creeps into morning.

And if, some days later, Aziraphale notices that the elevator in Crowley’s lobby has been made over with cream paint and a delicate tartan check, he never says a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! My headcanon is that Gabriel learned about the idea of solitary confinement when he popped down to earth to get his pretentious clothing tailored in the 1840s. My other headcanon is that eventually Aziraphale and Crowley get their shit together and move to the South Downs. 
> 
> I’d be remiss without a quick thank you to [Lurlur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur) for Britpicking this fic and to [Beppi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beppi/) for punching up some of the Crowley dialogue in Chapter 1, as they both improved this story measurably!
> 
> If you want to say hello, send me a message on tumblr! I’m at [charliebrown1234](https://charliebrown1234.tumblr.com/) and would love to hear from you.

**Author's Note:**

> Real quick backstory for this work; I visited Eastern State Penitentiary in October and was immediately struck by the idea of Aziraphale in solitary confinement. However, real life got in the way, so this fic was churned out in bits and pieces with much support from [Turcote.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turcote) This fic wouldn't be here without her invaluable advice and writing help!
> 
> For similar isolation and solitary confinement Aziraphale fics while you're waiting for an update, here are links to HotCrossPigeon's [So Still I Wait](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21446815/chapters/51106993), Kaesa's [Plain White Room](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21112292), and mirawonderfulstar's [Faithless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18060521).
> 
> As a story note, the reason Aziraphale's never had trouble with Crowley's elevator is because the only time he's ever traveled in it was during the Apocalypse, and he had bigger concerns to worry about at the time. 
> 
> If you were wondering what a room of mirrors would look like, here's a [link](https://youtu.be/WIhe_P4qDco).
> 
> Charles Dicken's quote was taken from this [article](https://solitarywatch.org/2010/02/27/charles-dickens-on-solitary-confinement-immense-torture-and-agony/).
> 
> Solitary confinement is a real and pressing issue for around 80,000 people in the United States. Eastern State Penitentiary works with the organization [Photo Requests From Solitary](http://photorequestsfromsolitary.org/information/) to support people in solitary confinement, and if you are interested you can too.


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